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    <copyright>This text is under public domain</copyright>
    <title>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Canto the first (I.-X.)</title>
    <author>Lord Byron</author>
    <text>
	oh thou in hellas deemed of heavenly birth
	muse formed or fabled at the minstrels will
	since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth
	mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill
	yet there ive wandered by thy vaunted rill
	yes sighed oer delphis longdeserted shrine
	where save that feeble fountain all is still
	nor mote my shell awake the weary nine
	to grace so plain a talethis lowly lay of mine

	whilome in albions isle there dwelt a youth
	who ne in virtues ways did take delight
	but spent his days in riot most uncouth
	and vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of night
	ah me in sooth he was a shameless wight
	sore given to revel and ungodly glee
	few earthly things found favour in his sight
	save concubines and carnal companie
	and flaunting wassailers of high and low degree

	childe harold was he hight but whence his name
	and lineage long it suits me not to say
	suffice it that perchance they were of fame
	and had been glorious in another day
	but one sad losel soils a name for aye
	however mighty in the olden time
	nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay
	nor florid prose nor honeyed lines of rhyme
	can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime

	childe harold basked him in the noontide sun
	disporting there like any other fly
	nor deemed before his little day was done
	one blast might chill him into misery
	but long ere scarce a third of his passed by
	worse than adversity the childe befell
	he felt the fulness of satiety
	then loathed he in his native land to dwell
	which seemed to him more lone than eremites sad cell

	for he through sins long labyrinth had run
	nor made atonement when he did amiss
	had sighed to many though he loved but one
	and that loved one alas could neer be his
	ah happy she to scape from him whose kiss
	had been pollution unto aught so chaste
	who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss
	and spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste
	nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste

	and now childe harold was sore sick at heart
	and from his fellow bacchanals would flee
	tis said at times the sullen tear would start
	but pride congealed the drop within his ee
	apart he stalked in joyless reverie
	and from his native land resolved to go
	and visit scorching climes beyond the sea
	with pleasure drugged he almost longed for woe
	and een for change of scene would seek the shades below

	the childe departed from his fathers hall
	it was a vast and venerable pile
	so old it seemed only not to fall
	yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle
	monastic dome condemned to uses vile
	where superstition once had made her den
	now paphian girls were known to sing and smile
	and monks might deem their time was come agen
	if ancient tales say true nor wrong these holy men

	yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood
	strange pangs would flash along childe harolds brow
	as if the memory of some deadly feud
	or disappointed passion lurked below
	but this none knew nor haply cared to know
	for his was not that open artless soul
	that feels relief by bidding sorrow flow
	nor sought he friend to counsel or condole
	whateer this grief mote be which he could not control

	and none did love him  though to hall and bower
	he gathered revellers from far and near
	he knew them flatterers of the festal hour
	the heartless parasites of present cheer
	yea none did love himnot his lemans dear 
	but pomp and power alone are womans care
	and where these are light eros finds a feere
	maidens like moths are ever caught by glare
	and mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair

	childe harold had a mothernot forgot
	though parting from that mother he did shun
	a sister whom he loved but saw her not
	before his weary pilgrimage begun
	if friends he had he bade adieu to none
	yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel
	ye who have known what tis to dote upon
	a few dear objects will in sadness feel
	such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal
    </text>
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